by John Burke
For the first few minutes she preferred to prowl about the hall, getting her bearings. As a connoisseur of the tastes of art thieves, she marvelled that the paintings were still here. Not as portable as the quaich, of course. The theft had the marks of an impulsive snatch rather than the calculated operation of a high grade thief.
She paused for a moment below Alma-Tadema’s sensuous concept of the Bareback Lass.
During that couple of years in Kilstane she had attended a Common Riding, enjoying it as a spectacle but wondering why the hell they put such store on its ins and outs. It wasn’t a thing you argued about, though: you had to accept it for what it was, in the way that you accepted Burns’ Suppers and Hogmanay. She had no intention of putting backs up by asking why, in this present case, a little drinking vessel should be so significant. So long as you had your dram glass alongside a pint, as the custody sergeant had once asked – though out of hearing of local fanatics – why bother with supping out of an old-fashioned soup bowl?
‘Mrs Robson did say that this meant the whole Riding was off,’ said Torrance. ‘It can’t begin without the quaich.’
‘So I gather.’ Lesley Gunn turned from the painting towards the empty case and the goblet in its still unopened case beside it.
‘Every move according to a rigid tradition.’ He might have been making a personal apology. ‘Just as bad as the old D’Oyly Carte productions of Gilbert and Sullivan. One misplaced gesture, and you were out.’
‘Can you fill me in on each move of this particular drama, Sir Nicholas?’
Since he had designed much of the Pipers’ Ball programme himself, he proved an admirably succinct witness. She could almost fancy having been here herself as he summoned up pictures of the pipers lined up along that wall, the guests coming in, the dancing, the music accompanying the serving of food on trestle tables over there, the growing boisterousness, and the clumsy meddlings with his keyboard which fused the power supply for a few minutes.
‘And presumably,’ she said, ‘the quaich was lifted during that temporary blackout.’
‘That’s all I can think of.’
‘But someone must have been familiar with the lock, to open it in the dark and get the quaich out so quickly.’
Torrance offered her a sheepish grin. ‘It wasn’t in its case. I’d offered the Convenor and his wife the wherewithal for a welcoming toast to the guests – a silly sort of gesture, since it doesn’t even seem to have been traditional. D’Oyly Carte would have been furious. I honestly don’t know what came over me: the atmosphere, something silly . . . Anyway, I put it down beside the case, and we got on with the evening. And it was only when everyone had gone and we were clearing up that Mrs Robson spotted the quaich was missing. And she said in a real voice of doom that this meant the Ride-outs couldn’t take place.’
‘When you say a voice of doom, was there any reason why Mrs Robson might have felt some satisfaction at this?’
‘Most unlikely, since I’d chosen her own daughter to ride as the Bareback Lass.’
‘You chose her? Sorry, Sir Nicholas, but when I was stationed here I thought it was the Committee that always made the choice.’
He gave her a brisk summary of events which had led up to this. Again his story was clear and comprehensible, but DI Gunn’s heart sank. If any of those complications had a direct bearing on reasons for the theft, there was going to be an awful tangle of perverse motives to unravel. A crude robbery for gain would be so much simpler. But even while he talked she went on thinking what an unlikely scenario that was. Basically the cup was of value only to a Borders community; and if it had been reived by one community from another, they would never be brazen enough to display it openly.
‘Just a minute. Did you announce your choice of the Bareback Lass before or after the lights went out?’
He had an engaging way of screwing up his eyes and somehow letting them go out of focus while considering a question, much as she could imagine him doing when concentrating on his music: curtaining off one faculty in order to intensify the other. His elevation to the baronetcy might be recent, but his face was patrician in itself; and might have been haughty if it were not for the tinge of diffidence.
When he decided to speak, she realised for the first time what music there was in his voice. In certain situations, he could surely persuade a woman of anything without even trying. Not here and now he wouldn’t. She concentrated on the words, not the music in them.
‘It was just before,’ he said. ‘Just before the lights went off. Not that it took all that long before we got them back on again.’
‘Who was we? I mean, who helped you?’
‘Robson.’
‘So it couldn’t have been that Mrs Robson didn’t know you’d be choosing her daughter. Up till then she might have been feeling very peeved about her son losing out on being the Callant.’
‘You’ve been doing your homework, inspector.’
‘There’s still a lot of swotting to do.’
‘I don’t believe a consideration of that kind would have led Mrs Robson to do anything so stupid. In any case, as I’ve told you, the nomination was made before the lights went out, so she was aware that one of her children would be the star of the show.’
‘I know it’s asking a lot, but can you remember who was near the quaich just before the lights went out?’
‘There were some drunken oicks lurching about. We had some fairly noisy young farmers and hunt riders here that night.’
She remembered the type all too well. ‘By the time they were in that state,’ she suggested, ‘taking the quaich might have been their notion of a joke.’
‘I did think of that. But wouldn’t one expect it to be mysteriously returned the next day, when they sobered up?’
‘Anybody else who might have been near that spot?’
‘The Robsons were going to and fro, helping with the food. And,’ he emphasised before she could pick him up on this, ‘I don’t for a moment think it was them. They’re not that kind of people.’
Lesley refrained from commenting that, in her experience, the most unlikely kinds of people could turn out to be the most ingenious criminals.
‘The Fergusons,’ he went on. ‘She was holding forth about something, and stomping to and fro. But I gather she’s always doing that. Drawing attention to herself – which you don’t do if you’re planning a surreptitious robbery.’
‘That depends.’ The DI had been doing some pacing herself. Now she sat down and nodded her thanks for the cool drink in its Caithness crystal glass. ‘You’re offering a reward, Sir Nicholas?’
‘I’ve been wondering about that. Frankly, I’m not well enough off to start offering thousands around.’
‘The insurance company usually handles that aspect.’
‘Yes, well’ – again there was that rueful grin – ‘I hadn’t got round to insuring it.’
‘Your predecessor hadn’t done so?’
‘Apparently not.’
In the case of some historic pieces with which she had dealt, she could have written out the entire specification herself. But Black Knowe had never been a notable stately home, and no tourist brochure or catalogue of its contents existed. The only previous time the quaich had been referred to during her career was by that custody sergeant, before she ever aspired to the Special Operations Unit. Until now. ‘If you can give me full particulars, we’ll enter it into the PNC Property Index, and the Art Loss Register.’
In between sips of the vodka and tonic, she ran her eye down the list he had provided of guests as he tried to place them for her in the hall at the crucial moments. Inevitably there were gaps. She was going to have to plod through a long, unreliable roll-call.
This Professor Makepeace . . . a bit of a sceptic about the whole ceremony. Capable of taking the quaich away for a few weeks just to mess things up, and then contriving a way of replacing it? Or his son, an Englishman already pushing himself into the scheme of things – ‘A bit of a swaggerer,�
� commented Sir Nicholas – thinking himself mighty clever to remove it from under their noses?
The name of James Brown rang a faint bell. But it was a common enough name, as were Rab Duncan, Ian MacKenzie, and the Fergusons.
‘We’ll do our best, Sir Nicholas. I’m afraid I may have to nip back and verify things with you from time to time.’
‘You’ll be welcome.’ His eyes crinkled into a smile, and she found she was smiling back. ‘It’s so bloody silly, really,’ he said. ‘I’m sure it’s a dreadful waste of your time.’
She thought that, too. Yet for some reason she found she was beginning to look forward to the task.
*
Anticipation was soon soured by reality. She remembered Kilstane all too well; and, as she had feared, Kilstane remembered her.
‘Och, now, if it isn’t little Lesley Gunn.’ Mrs Robson had been waiting eagerly for her. ‘Constable Gunn.’
‘Detective Inspector Gunn.’
‘Well, now, who’d ever have expected you here again?’ She was beaming. ‘Goodness, it seems only yesterday, that business of you and the minister. We’ve often had a wee laugh over that.’
By the time Lesley had arrived in the town, Forensic had already established that all traces of any possible evidence around the place where the quaich had sat during the evening had been diligently wiped away. There were fingerprints in other places, and marks where people had spilled wine or whisky. But the only fingerprints on the table were those of Mrs Robson’s left hand as she gripped its edge while rubbing fiercely with her right. And the only hairs from clothing or anything else picked up by application of sticky tape were strands from Mrs Robson’s polish rag. It was high time, thought Lesley, to wipe that smirk off her face.
‘Mrs Robson, I understand you polished away every mark on that table almost as soon as the guests had gone.’
‘A lot of stuff had been spilt. And a lot of crumbs.’
‘You couldn’t have left that until morning?’
‘I could never bear leaving that sort of mess to eat its way in. And if I had,’ said Mrs Robson triumphantly, ‘we’d not have known about the theft of the quaich till morning, would we? It was while I was doing that cleaning that I saw it was missing.’
In spite of Sir Nicholas’s dismissal of any suspicion about them, Lesley could not help wondering how long Robson might have spun out the restoration of the lighting in order to give his wife time to remove the quaich and hide it for later collection. After all their years in the tower, they would have all the know-how necessary for a secure hiding-place. But since they had learnt before the lights went out that one of their children was going to ride after all, why snatch it in the first place?
Or had it gone before the lights went out?
But then, when the announcement was made, why hadn’t they simply slipped it back into place, or ‘found’ it behind a curtain?
Unless they disapproved of Fiona’s brazen choice of Callant. Which seemed highly unlikely.
‘You wouldn’t mind us taking your fingerprints?’
Robson, who had let his wife do all the talking until now, flared up. ‘What d’you mean? Why pick on us? We’ve worked here all this time, and proud of it, and never once has anybody –’
‘Please, Mr Robson. It’s simply a matter of elimination. We may need to ask for the prints of everyone who was here for the Ball.’
‘That’ll keep you busy,’ said Mrs Robson. ‘But I canna see what use they’ll be, if you don’t have the thing itself. I mean, it’s on the quaich that the marks’ll count, is it not?’
Lesley Gunn moved on to interview the younger Robsons.
Both of them said that they had still been holding their instruments when the lights went out; and Fiona had tightened her grip on the clarsach, which she thought was far more valuable than that tinpot little drinking mug. Her quiet intensity was convincing. Colin Robson sounded just as solid: he had simply stayed put rather than get caught up in the confusion.
DI Gunn turned her attention to the next name on her list.
*
The Convenor of the Common Riding Committee sat in a drawing-room which had surely not been altered since the days of his grandparents. There were framed sepia photographs of stern-faced worthies and their womenfolk above a large sideboard. A vast club armchair in leather polished by arms, shoulders and a solid backside could only have been reserved for Dr Hamilton himself. His wife’s must be the easy chair too narrow to be really easy, with loose covers which had faded and gone very loose indeed over the years. Not that there was any immediate way of confirming this: Mrs Hamilton was not the sort to venture into this room without her husband’s specific invitation.
Dr Hamilton’s evidence was as weighty as his surroundings. Without waiting for any questions, he pronounced that the police must without fail get the quaich back within this coming week. The Ride-outs could not start without it.
‘You couldn’t, just for once, use another one? Hire one from a local antique shop, or something?’
The Convenor’s horror was not noisy but as ominous as a volcano beginning to rumble underground. It was unthinkable to start the ceremonies without the genuine quaich; yet if they were abandoned, there were other dangers. To maintain the town charter, another honour still cherished, the bounds must be ridden annually.
‘I see.’ DI Gunn kept a suitably grave face. ‘You can’t start and go through with it without the quaich. But if you don’t start and don’t go through with it, bang goes your charter.’
‘I shall have to put it to an emergency meeting. Whether we can go ahead without the quaich . . .’ Hamilton shook his head dismally. ‘But,’ he rallied, ‘the question will not arise when you have recovered the quaich. Without delay.’
He had all the gravitas of a hanging judge. From the past, DI Gunn recalled him as a GP whose patients would be told what he decided, and no more. He would never be dishonest: just selective of as much truth as he himself decided was tolerable.
She asked where he had been standing during the evening, especially when the lights went out. Had he noticed anything suspicious or, indeed, had any suspicions of his own?
‘There are several undesirable elements in the town nowadays,’ said Hamilton flatly.
‘Anyone in particular in mind?’
‘It is up to you to collect and analyse the evidence. I’d not be wishing to offer any misleading personal opinions on the matter. One can only hope you have grown more skilful since the mistakes of your probationary period here.’
Of course he would have remembered. And there was no forgiving twinkle in his eye. Dr Hamilton was not a man to laugh at innocent errors. Error was error.
There was an old precept: follow the money and you find the crook. Only in this case it was hard to see the monetary motive. Where could the quaich be sold without arousing suspicion? Who would know exactly where to dispose of it; and how much would it actually be worth, anyway?
She had run off duplicates of Sir Nicholas’s list of guests, and on one was ticking off interviews as she made them. The other she handed over to the Kilstane police for them to take basic statements. She didn’t set any high hopes on the blootered young farmers having anything useful to offer even when sobered up; though there might just be one who suddenly blurted out that it had all been no more than a stupid bloody joke.
On her own list a name popped up at her again.
Jamie Brown was coming into focus. Now she recalled references in the CAD files to some dubious scams in Dundee before Brown left to settle in Kilstane. And there had been a hint of some connection with a seedy arts-and-crafts lecturer and the disappearance of a sequence of silver cups from Lauderdale.
She must meet Mr Brown.
In a congested office above the abandoned bookshop, reached by an outside stair, he appeared glad to see her. He was the type who would be offended if he was ignored. Better to be accused and therefore important rather than passed over without a murmur.
‘Hap
py to be fingerprinted or anything like that,’ he declared. ‘Wouldn’t be surprised to learn my prints are all over the window seat. Seem to remember putting my glass down close to the case where they keep the goblet. And the quaich.’
‘You don’t recall anybody getting closer to it – deliberately, I mean – just before the lights went out?’
‘Weren’t expecting the lights to go out, were we? At least, most of us weren’t. But Torrance can’t say I didn’t warn him. First time I visited him, I suggested he needed to take out some substantial insurance.’
The back of Lesley Gunn’s neck prickled. ‘And he refused?’
‘Said he’d think about it. Didn’t think quickly enough, did he?’
Lesley allowed herself the indulgence ot wondering whether Brown would go so far as to steal the quaich as an object lesson to the new owner of Black Knowe. Take it, then find a way of restoring it with a great flourish, and do handsomely out of Sir Nicholas’s belated realisation of the importance of insurance.
It was too blatant. She reserved judgment on Jamie Brown.
A witness who believed in firing furiously from the battlements before bothering to distinguish friend from foe was Hannah Ferguson. She let fly immediately, programmed to overwhelm anyone who had the impertinence to doubt her.
‘You’re saying I’m the sort of person who’d steal something just to make a few shillings?’ She waved her hand possessively around her sitting-room. ‘Do I look like someone who needs to go out picking pockets?’
‘I do have to interview everyone, Mrs Ferguson. Any light you can shed on events during the evening would be most appreciated.’
The woman’s face was too raddled with self-indulgent rage for her to be stopped by mere politeness. ‘What about all the modern scientific techniques we keep reading about? I didn’t think you needed to harass innocent bystanders any more. Press some button, and everything’s made clear. Why aren’t you up at the tower analysing everything? I do find this visit most distasteful.’
Yet, like Jamie Brown, she would clearly have been even angrier if nobody had come to question her. It was so enjoyable to play it high-and-mighty while still nosing into everything that was going on. Lesley assessed her as a guttersharp go-getter. For all her pretensions, she had come from nowhere. Marriage to a Torrance had taught her how to become someone – in her own estimation. Unfortunately, in DI Gunn’s estimation she was also too blusteringly arrogant to go in for things like petty theft. And surely she wouldn’t have the contacts to dispose of the damned thing profitably. The house looked well furnished, in no need of dodgy money spent on it. And her husband a solicitor. There were crooked solicitors a-plenty; but rarely in this sort of crime.
